


(feels like) we only go backwards

by goforth



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Detective!Chloe, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Superhero!Lucifer, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goforth/pseuds/goforth
Summary: The media likes to refer to him as “Lightbringer.” Chloe prefers “Giant Pain in Her Ass.”
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	(feels like) we only go backwards

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a product of waiting for Lucifer to come back and watching too many Marvel movies during quarantine. It was meant to be a oneshot but makes more sense as a two part story (fingers crossed). It's also my first Lucifer fic, so hopefully it stays true to the characters we know and love (and even those we don't). All credit goes to Neil Gaiman, Tom Kapinos, Fox, Netflix, and Lauren German's wonderfully weird Instagram account.
> 
> Title comes from “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards” by Tame Impala.

_The answers you seek shall be yours,  
_ _Once I claim what is mine._

* * *

LOS ANGELES TELEGRAPH  
WORLD & NATION

 **Lightbringer Shines Down on Brentwood Robberies  
** By Reese Getty and Richard Owens  
Updated on 3:39 AM PST March 18, 2019

[Image of a blurry, dark street. A hooded figure takes up most of the frame, back turned to the camera, but face forward. The angle is from above, looking down on the street. The figure’s eyes look to be bright red.]

 **(Los Angeles, California)** **—** LA County’s latest vigilante, commonly referred to as “Lightbringer,” has once again found himself in the spotlight when he thwarted the Brentwood 7’s plans to rob a bank on Balfour Road late Tuesday night. Following an anonymous call they received before arriving at the scene, the LAPD found five of the seven suspects tied to the outside of the Chase Bank building. One of the five, who’s name is yet to be released to the public, is currently in critical condition at West Los Angeles Medical Center. The stolen money—which doesn’t yet appear to be all accounted for—was left in the syndicate’s prepared duffle bags. It is believed that the two remaining members of the Brentwood 7 are still at large and considered dangerous. This would have been the syndicate’s fifth bank hit, the last of which resulted in the deaths of a bank security guard and a teller.

Though Lightbringer continues to evade police custody, a source says he was just blocks away from the scene when the police arrived. “I heard a commotion from outside my window around 11 PM, so I went down to the street to check it out. I couldn’t see very well, but there was a [man] flying down the street. He looked like he had some kind of cape on. I’d bet money on it being Lightbringer.” It is unclear at this time if Lightbringer did indeed stay to watch the subsequent arrest.

This is the vilegente’s fourth citizen’s arrest in the past five months. Though the Poke Stick Killer is still at large, Archibald Preston (a major cocaine drug dealer), Carlson Leavitt (the man responsible for the Church of St. Mary Massacre), and Jose Mendez (a crime boss for the WHYOS Gang), were all arrested due to Lightbringer’s justice. There is still no known information about the man. Though many find his actions to be controversial, there is no doubt that Brentwood can rest safe tonight knowing their money, and bodies, are safe.

_The LAPD has declined to comment. Updates to this story are developing._

* * *

The clock on her computer says that it’s barely past noon, but Chloe can already feel a terrible headache blooming at her temples. Her neck groans at a tension point that stretches the length of her shoulders. The latte, which she’d made the moment she stepped into the precinct at seven, is so cold she thinks the cup might be dripping with condensation.

A deep sigh escapes her as she leans forward to rest her head on the desk in front of her, willing her body to ignore itself until she can go home. (Whenever that is.) Faintly, strangely, her mind travels to a book Trix liked to read. _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day._ The sigh that’s still going pivots into a scoff, her head lightly bouncing against the wood. What the fuck did _that_ kid know about very bad days?

Chloe knows all about bad days. The day Trix fell off the monkey bars when Chloe wasn’t looking and broke her arm. The day she risked her entire career on a failed attempt to expose a corrupt cop, who’d been miles away in a coma. The day she decided, definitively, to divorce Dan. She knows what it’s like to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders and an unturning, immovable stone in her stomach. And she knows that if Alexander spent even an _hour_ in her worn-but-sensible brown shoes, he’d run screaming for the hills and never complain about gum in his hair or bad grades at school again.

Especially today.

Because this is, at the very least, a Chloe Decker’s Top Five Bad Days contender.

Forcing her head back up to stare at the blinding computer screen, she squints at the words, as though willing them to imprint on her brain. In a stubborn response, they just string together senselessly. _Lightbringer_. _Vigilante_. _Continues to evade police custody._ She hadn’t been assigned to the Brentwood 7 case—Homicide doesn’t usually get involved with bank robberies, not even when two murders are a result—but she’d been on the scene when Carlson Leavitt was found hanging (but alive) from the stoop of his apartment building. That was the first time she’d heard of the man that had been puzzling and haunting even the best detectives on the force. There’d been no prints, no DNA, and nothing to do but bring Leavitt in for questioning. That was when the once feared cult leader confessed quickly and frantically, as though spending the rest of his life in prison was a better alternative than…

Than whatever is out there lurking in the shadows.

And she wouldn’t be worrying about the Brentwood 7 case if Jack Morgan hadn’t died in the hospital early this morning. If it wasn’t being considered murder. If it didn’t seem like “Lightbringer” had been the killer. If the lieutenant hadn’t tasked Chloe with finding answers—and fast.

 _I will not have this amateur nobody making a mockery of the LAPD, Decker,_ he’d spit out early this morning. Chloe couldn’t blame him.

With another inescapable sigh, she pulls her attention away from the article to go through the file again. Like the article, it’s depressingly short. There’s an account of what the officers found when they reached Balfour: five men zip tied to the perimeter of the bank, one in critical condition from a gunshot to the stomach, duffel bags of cash filled with two million dollars, compared to the five million that was stolen from the bank, and a random assortment of items. A feather, some fallen bricks, a cufflink, and a two-sided coin (“ _In God we trust_ ” on one side, “ _In God we’re damned_ ” on the other). Lightbringer’s calling card. She stares at the picture of the coin, memorizing the images of a man on a cross and a bull with horns, willing her brain to come up with _something_. Anything. It’s religious in nature, obviously, and didn’t they bring in that priest for killing a “damned soul” with a knife the other month? What was his name, Father Kinle—

“Hey, Chloe—… You alright?”

As though jolted by a lightning bolt, her body flinches out of its daze and her eyes lift to meet Dan. They’ve been divorced going on fifteen months now. It took a while, but they’ve found a groove to co-existing both at work and at home. Chloe’s grateful for it. A semblance of normalcy in a maddeningly chaotic world.

“Hey, sorry. Just distracted by this whole ‘Lightbringer’ business.” The word drips with disdain and ash. She’s never been a fan of civilian’s taking matters into their own hands, chasing after the limelight under the guise of helping the helpless. “What’ve we got?”

Dan nods in a silent understanding. She knows he won’t press her on it and that allows her shoulders to drop, a fraction of the tension she’d been holding in them to release. “I might have a lead. Just got off the phone with the precinct’s contact at Homeland Security and—”

“Woah, woah, woah, wait.” She blinks once, twice, before picking her jaw back up. The words come out as a whisper when she finds them again. “They think this guy is a _terrorist?”_ Her knowledge of the department is dismal at best, but she’s watched the news. Seen the press conferences, attended the meetings, been at the cusp of something bigger than her. Bigger than the _country._ Her head spins.

Dan, to his credit, merely shrugs. “Seems so. Says they picked up activity on this guy back in 2011 in Iraq when he ‘allegedly’ prevented a truck from falling off a bridge. The van was filled with Al Qaeda members and enough nuclear weapons to eradicate the country. The truck got away and two days later an American base was blown to bits. After that it was just a string of coincidences. This guy gets photographed in a town square in Italy, a shooting happens in The Vatican. Sights of a flying cape in a river, a base hears signals about an uprising in the northern country. Small shit like that tends to build up a pattern and people notice.”

 _Um, okay. Wow._ Pushing that particular can of worms into a box marked Later, Chloe leans in slightly. “Any idea who he is?”

“Nah, they didn’t have much else. That we’re privy to, anyway.” If there’s one thing Dan hates, it’s not being privy to things. She can see his frustration plain as day, right there on his face. He always did tend to wear his heart on his sleeve. “But they think it’s probable that he’s in the States. They have records on him dating back two years, then nothing. They think he might have taken a break from the whole... terrorism thing. Didn’t pick back up on their radar until they saw the article today.”

“And what about the bank robberies makes them think he’s back on the map?”

Another shrug. “They think the Brentwood 7 has ties to a sleeper cell, and when you factor in the money that was stolen… Well, they’re wondering if it was an inside job. Or a rival group. Either way, they’re noticing.”

A twisted sense of relief fills her bones as she clasps her hands together. She wonders, briefly, if Dan akins the gesture to praying. “So are they gonna take over the case? Since he’s resurfaced?” While she doesn’t know much about Homeland Security, Chloe’s had enough interaction with the FBI to know that the government tends to take matters into their own quiet, guarded hands.

“Not exactly. At least, not yet.” Dan must sense her disgruntled gaze because he adds the caveat quickly. “Problem is, there’s never been any definitive proof. The guy was practically a ghost before tonight. A ghost that could easily just be a normal guy. If we can bring him in, or supply any proof of terrorist activity, then Homeland takes over. So we just have to find the dots and they connect them.”

Chloe nods once, then twice. “Okay. Okay, we can do that.” The words feel hollow, even to her. Finding dots to connect is part of the job, but the evidence is thin at best. This guy has been dodging them for months, always three steps ahead. Her eyes flicker back to the coin and it glares mockingly back. _Just try and figure me out._ “Let’s check in with Ella and see if she found anything at the crime scene.”

They make their way through the unmoving sea of bodies to the lab. Ella Lopez crashed into the job two years prior, fresh off a degree in Forensic Science and a past she kept strapped close to her chest. The occasional slip of information had unnerved Chloe at first—stolen cars, lost nights (and money) in Vegas, illegal contacts and connections—but even she can’t deny Ella’s talent and zest for life. It’s why she greets the girl warmly when she enters the lab, her tired smile straining against her eyes. “Hey, Ella. Got that forensic report for me yet?”

Ella’s body is turned away from them. Her hands are methodically pulling at something and her frame is moving to an inaudible beat. Headphone wires dance from her ears. Chloe reaches out to gently tap her shoulder, the smile growing as Ella faces to turn them.

“Oh, hey! Chlo and Dan! Didn’t see you there.” Her smile shakes the sun as she turns fully to look at them, hands pulling at the wires before letting them fall haphazardly. “Here about the report?”

Dan manages to keep his chuckle soft as he nods. “Yeah. Got anything?”

“Oh, do I _ever_. And it’s totally weird.” She’s practically beaming as she moves aside so the detectives can see what she’s working on. “Okay, so, remember the feather they found near the duffel bags?”

Chloe nods, eyes flickering to the white material as it lays on the table. “Yeah. Is it from a dove or something?” Maybe this Lightbringer fellow is just a wannabee magician with a lucky streak.

“No, that’s the weird part!” Ella’s body seems to vibrate as she plucks the feather in her gloved hands and holds it next to her head. Chloe, not for the first time, wonders where she finds the energy. “It’s not from a dove, or a pillow, or a coat, or _anything._ At least, that I can tell. When I put it under the scope I was like, totally sure I’d recognize the chemical makeup, but nothing. Zip. Zilch. _Nada._ This feather is straight whack.”

“Okay…” Chloe’s grateful Dan speaks up. He’s better about handling the… _Ellaness_ of it all. “So you have no idea what it is?”

Ella simply shakes her head. “But what I _do_ know is that the cells at the end here?” A gloved finger points to the small stem at the base. “Human. Like, straight up, X chromosome, double helix human. Like they were _attached._ Or, glued or something. DNA doesn’t match anything in the database, but still. My guess? It’s part of a costume or something. I can’t tell what synthetics are being used yet but I’ll keep digging.”

Chloe nods at the information. Terrorists don’t usually dress up in costumes. There’s a brief flash from her brain that reminds her not to bring up the whole possibility of their suspect _being_ a terrorist, and not some cosplayer, in front of Ella. At least not yet. So she turns to Dan, eyes slightly wide, as she casually mentions, “Maybe we can look at local costume shops. See if anyone’s bought a pair of costume wings recently.”

“Yeah, alright. Maybe he even has the name ‘Lightbringer’ on his credit card statement.” 

It’s meant as a joke, but Ella turns into the picture of excitement at the mention.

“Wait, you guys really think Lightbringer has something to do with this?” At their matching pensive shrugs, she presses on. “Oh, man, that is _so_ cool. Regular dude by day, vigilante by night. Taking LA’s criminal life by storm. Bringing justice and light to the dark, cold city.” Her arms are suddenly moving in a faux-boxing formation, her body lowering to the ground as she adds in a kick. After a moment of commitment she rises again, breath shaky and eyes bright. “Kinda ironic about the name, though. _Lightbringer_.”

Chloe perks up as Ella chuckles. “Wait, why? Why is the name ironic? Because he doesn’t leave any fires or lights on at the scenes?”

Their wonder child just shrugs. “Yeah. That, and the fact that ‘the Lightbringer’ is another name for Lucifer.” She’s met with blank, unnerved stares and sighs. “You know, _Lucifer?_ Satan? Beelzebub? The Archangel who fell from Grace and into Hell? Some fanatics say he brings justice to those who deserve it in Hell because God gave him a job, but the Bible says he’s the embodiment of pure. Evil. And, you know, so does all of pop culture.”

Chloe hums, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She supposes, in a way, that it makes sense. If this guy—this Lightbringer—believes he’s carrying out justice, as though it’s a job bestowed upon him, it falls in line with the vigilante angle more than the terrorist angle. Her brain ticks with the possibility of someone making him that way, like God casting Satan out of Heaven. Maybe an Osama Bin Laden type character, pulling the strings on an operation he’s unwittingly part of? But she casts the thought out. Terrorists or not, Chloe sticks to seeking out the facts first. “Right. Ironic. Anything else?”

Ella shakes her head. “Not much. The coin didn’t have any prints on it, so the guy must have been wearing gloves. The gunshot was from a nine millimeter. Pretty standard for murder, but we didn’t find any shell casings. The cufflink is expensive, but I haven’t identified the brand yet. I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Great. Maybe we can trace it back through the buyer.” Dan’s eyes are surveying the little evidence they have, but he still manages to remain focused. Determined. “Thanks, Ella.”

After Chloe repeats the sentiment and Dan taps her back with a flair of camaraderie, they head back towards the desk. They share a helpless look, forged through their work partnership, before she sits down at her desk and starts researching local costume and magic shops. It’s funny how the feeling of knowing nothing can weigh on a person.

* * *

The costume and magic shops, as presumed, turn up empty.

Chloe spends a mind-numbing amount of time contacting store owners. No one sells attachable, glueable wings. No one’s sold a pair of normal costume wings in the past few weeks. No one even seems to _sell_ wings that look anywhere close to authentic enough. After three hours she’s nowhere closer to getting a lead than she was this morning. It feels overwhelmingly hopeless. She’s been here before—stuck in a rut with nothing much to go on—but not on a case quite as high profile as this one. Not with her captain and the whole of Los Angeles breathing down her neck.

The dark parking lot that peeks through above the stairs of the precinct stares mockingly at her, telling her to go home. She won’t have any more luck if she pulls a fourteen hour shift, it seems to remind her. And the parking lot is probably right. Her captain left hours ago and Dan went to go pick up Trix for the weekend. She can go home, take a bath, crawl right into bed, and sleep until it’s time to stare hopelessly at unhelpful facts again.

Of course, minutes after she starts packing up her stuff, she gets a text from Ella. And she gets a horrible feeling that her shift isn’t over yet.

 _Traced cufflink back to buyer. Buyer gave me a name. You’ll never guess what the name is!!!!!!_ , the text reads. Chloe’s eyes strain against the dim light as she stares at her phone. Ella, in her true, quirky fashion, doesn’t elaborate on what the name is. The text that immediately follows only contains an address. Knowing she’ll have to swing by and check it out, she briefly considers calling Dan, but backs out of it for Trix’s sake. She has so few nights with her dad these days. And besides, even if the lead _does_ turn out to be a good one, it’s not like she has enough to charge whoever this cufflink owner is. All she can really do is ask some questions and leave.

She checks her watch. Finishes packing up her things. Tries to roll out the crick in her neck once more. And then, twenty minutes past nine, Chloe heads to her location.

It becomes very apparent, even two miles out, that she’s headed for a nightclub. The thought drives an unusual sense of anxiety through her. Her life for the past eight? ten? years has been work and home. Occasionally she finds herself tucked in a dive bar with Linda and Ella, but even then she always goes home after a glass of wine and a water. Even in the height of her twenties—the rowdiest she’s ever been—Chloe had preferred the company of a dimmed barstool than a strobing dance floor. So it’s a little jarring, she finds herself thinking, that she’s pulling up to the sidewalk of a place called _LUX_ and walking past the long line of patrons trying to gain entry.

The bouncer doesn’t give her much strife, thankfully. Sure, he takes one look at her messy ponytail and plain trousers and tells her to get in the back of the line or just go home, but he also takes a look at her badge. (Chloe can never tell if it defies expectations or simply just explains them.) It’s when she walks through the doors and into the throws of too-loud music and sweaty bodies that she realizes she has no clue who she’s looking for. The cufflink she’d managed to swipe from the lab _is_ clutched in her hand, though, so she supposes she can present it to someone and hope they might know the owner of it.

She makes her way through the crowd and towards the bar in the back of the huge room. It feels like the kind of place rich people with stressful jobs would go, but also people with not very much money and even less to do. Chloe isn’t sure what to make of it. Her form is steady as she pushes her body between two patrons and rests her elbows on the bar top. Her eyes study the bartender, a small, tanned girl with dark hair and an even darker way of moving about, until it’s her turn to order.

The girl has a strange combination of doubt and amusement in her eyes and the whisper of a smirk on her lips. She’s already making another cocktail as she asks, “What can I get you?”

Chloe clears her throat and pulls out the cufflink tucked safely in a small plastic bag. “The owner of this. Any ideas?”

The bartender’s eyes flit over to somewhere behind them, so quickly Chloe might have missed it if she wasn’t a cop, before turning back to frown at her. “Who wants to know?”

Once again Chloe finds herself taking out her badge. The bartender’s frown only deepens. “Now, do you want to tell me who I’m looking for?”

The other woman looks like she’s going to pick a fight—which wouldn’t be wise, sure, but Chloe’s more than used to people seeming to think they can evade the cops—before a voice suddenly appears next to her. “It’s alright, Maze, I’ve got this.” The voice belongs to a strikingly attractive man; tall, dark, unmistakingly confident. He palms the bartender’s shoulders and lifts an eyebrow, as if silently communicating with her. She stares back for a beat longer before deflating. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a break, yes? Can’t have my best gal on edge, hm?”

“Fine.” The woman—Maze—gives Chloe one last intimidating look before stalking over to the stairs. Chloe’s eyes watch her for a moment before turning back to the man. He’s already staring at her, smiling like he’s a wolf and she’s an unwilling deer. It makes her skin crawl.

“So, Detective. How can I help you? Can I get you a drink? Maybe a martini, perhaps? I bet you like it dirty.” His arms are leaning against the bar and his accent drips like honey and he’s _way_ too close.

She stands up from where she’d been leaning and crosses her arms over her chest. Flirting his way out of an interrogation is a fruitless attempt. “You can start by telling me who you are.” Something in her mind buzzes that this is who Maze was seemingly trying to protect, which is odd. This pristinely dressed (and manicured, as far as she can tell) man doesn’t _seem_ like a murderous vigilante.

“Lucifer Morningstar. I own this fine establishment. And you are?”

Then again, looks can be deceiving.

_Kind of ironic about the name, though. Lightbringer._

Part of Chloe’s job is keeping her expression neutral at the first sign of suspicion. She’s gotten pretty good at it over the years, she thinks. “Detective Decker, with the LAPD. I’m looking for the owner of this cufflink. Someone directed me to your bar.”

If Lucifer—honestly, _really?_ —is surprised by the appearance of the accessory, his face doesn’t show it. Maybe he’s good at hiding his emotions, too. “Is that right? Well, let me take a look at it, then.” He tugs the bag from her in a rather unceremonious fashion and pulls it up to the light to inspect it. After a particularly long, and probably unnecessary, moment, he places it back on the bar. “Well, I do believe that is my cufflink, Detective.”

Well then. She takes a quick moment to reassess and come up with the natural follow-up question. “And do you know where I found it, Mr. Morningstar?”

“Just Lucifer, Detective. Mr. Morningstar is my father.” His smile is so blinding that Chloe almost wants to tear her eyes from it. “Actually, that’s a lie; my father doesn’t have a last name. Something I chose myself. Still, the name is far too formal.” There’s a beat in the conversation as he makes himself a drink. Chloe is powerless as she watches him work smoothly, as though he’s performing a dance. Annoyance prickles at her brain. Then, once he takes a drink from some dark liquid she wouldn't dare to guess, he adds, “And I’d imagine you found it outside the Chase Bank on Balfour Road.”

Chloe blinks once, then twice. So much information to process in five short sentences. So many implications that she doesn’t have enough evidence to touch. Though the whole “my father doesn’t have a last name” itches at her tongue, she chooses to ignore it for the larger question at hand. “Yes, we did. Early Friday morning. What were you doing there?”

His expression seems to darken for a moment. It’s the first time since she stepped into the bar that he’s looked anything other than cheerfully charming. She wouldn’t call it guilty, per se, but rather annoyed. Maybe even angry. “I was trying to stop Lightbringer, of course. Since the police seem to be having trouble accomplishing such a task on their own. No offense.”

“You _what?”_ This time, Chloe doesn’t try to mask her surprise. She looks to her immediate left and right, gauging if anyone around them is listening, before leaning in closer. Her voice is only one decibel above a whisper. “You know Lightbringer?”

Curiously, shockingly, Lucifer takes a moment to look annoyed. It’s plain as day on his face. She’s pretty sure he even scoffs. “Yes, yes, the wonderful Lightbringer. Everyone _loves_ to gush about him, don’t they? I say he’s nothing more than a moronic, self-righteous vigilante. Carrying out justice in his own way, like he has any right to do so.” The words are biting and sarcastic as he mutters them.

Despite his adverse reaction, Chloe presses her hands against the bar and raises an eyebrow. She should ask him what his relation to Lightbringer is, but instead she asks, “And what makes you think you can stop him?”

Lucifer just smiles brightly as he says, clear as day, “Why, because I’m a superhero, Detective! There’s no one on Earth more suited to stop him than me.”

* * *

Let it be clear: Chloe Decker has had her fair share of strange cases.

She’s convicted murderous magicians, tackled therapists on bath salts, chased down taxidermists who turned their talents to human beings. She even interrogated a woman who was convinced she was a witch and that the heads of virgins were necessary for her potions. In the years she’s been on the force, she thought she’d seen it all.

And yet nothing, _nothing,_ had prepared her for Lucifer Morningstar. 

She gazes warily as he sits across from her in the interrogation room. Dan had offered to come in and help her, but Chloe figured it’d be better if she did this alone. He’s not dangerous, as far as she can tell, and… Well, Chloe is a woman. Something in her suspects he reacts more favorably to those. Even though it’s early in the morning after he’d told her that ridiculous lie about being a superhero, he’s still dressed impeccably. It’s a three piece suit and it looks far too expensive to be owned by a nightclub owner, no matter how busy said club might be. Dan’s warnings of _terrorism_ and _robbery_ and _arms dealer_ ring through her head as she watches him adjust his (notably new) cufflinks.

“So, Detective, did you bring me here to ask for my services?”

Chloe’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. Must every word that comes out of his mouth be so baffling? “Your services?”

Lucifer, as par for the course, looks unfazed. “Yes, my services.” He sits up in the metal chair and crosses one leg over the other. He looks unreasonably comfortable in it. After a moment a look of realization seems to dawn on him and he clasps his hands together. “Ah, yes, you must not be aware of my powers. Why would you, really?” Lucifer takes a moment to laugh, while Chloe can only huff out a breath of disbelief. “Well, I can fly, for one. I have fairly large wings. They’re not bulletproof, though the rest of me is. I could never quite figure out why daddy dearest didn’t go for consistency on that one.” He pauses to look genuinely puzzled, as though he’s searching for the answer in his brain, before continuing. “Anyway, everything else is rather dull, I’m afraid. I might not be particularly fast or strong, but it’s awfully nice, being incapable of death. In terms of battle, that is.”

It takes a moment, but Chloe manages to huff out an incredulous laugh. The story he’s telling is too absurd to warrant any other reaction. “You can… fly.” She’s acutely aware of how it sounds like she’s never said those words before. And, in her defense, she doesn’t think she’s ever said those words together, at least. “And you’re bulletproof?”

Lucifer doesn’t roll his eyes again, but he looks like he wants to. “Yes, Detective, as I just said. Which is why I am the best and perhaps _only_ person to stop Lightbringer.”

Her head swims as she stares at him. It’s crazy, obviously. Superheroes only exist in the movies Dan likes to drag her and Trix to. People don’t just _have wings that can fly_ and are _bulletproof._ There are good guys and bad guys and some guys in between and they are all human. There’s just no way. But the thing she can’t figure out is why he’d choose such a crazy lie. Why, if he really was trying to bring down Lightbringer, would he not just say he was another quasi-cop trying to make a citizen’s arrest? _Maybe he’s mentally ill,_ she thinks. She only half-regrets wondering.

Still, despite all her doubts, Chloe is a detective. It’s her job to muddle through the lies and find the underlying truth. So she asks, “Okay, then, Mr. Morningstar. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say you really do have superpowers. Why would you want to waste them on Lightbringer?”

“Lucifer,” he says first, pointedly. Chloe presses her lips into a thin line. “And I already told you why. He carries out justice in an unjust way. I won’t stand for it.”

_Some fanatics say he brings justice to those who deserve it in Hell because God gave him a job, but the Bible says he’s the embodiment of pure evil._

“Okay.” Chloe forces her thoughts to snap out of Ella’s words and back to his. She decides, at least for the moment, to play his game. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

His eyes seem to shine with appreciation. Or, more accurately, with a welcome chance to show off again. “Excellent question, Detective. You really are good!” She doesn’t preen at the compliment like he probably imagined she would have, but he continues on enthusiastically just the same. “The thing about Lightbringer is that he’s always one step ahead of everyone. You, me, the criminals who he allegedly brings to justice. I got close the last time, as you are aware.” For the second time Chloe watches darkness flash over his face. For all that she does doubt, his contempt feels hauntingly real. “And I’m certain I can do it again, especially with a real live LAPD detective. What, with your investigating skills and my powers, we can figure out where he’s hitting next and stop him before he does anything stupid!”

He says it so earnestly that Chloe almost believes him. There’s something intriguing about a man so convicted in his false delusions. Still, “I didn’t ask you here to ‘team up with you.’ I asked you here to interrogate you.”

Lucifer’s smile falls spectacularly fast. “You _what?”_ His accent shines through in his disappointment.

“We retrieved your cufflink at the scene, Mr. Morningstar.” Chloe continues speaking as she opens up the folder, not allowing him to correct her on his name again. “You own a nine millimeter gun, conveniently similar to the one that was used to kill the Brentwood Seven members.” She pauses to place pictures in front of him. He doesn’t interrupt her this time, but rather stares at the photos in front of him, his brows furrowed in question. “And we also found a mysterious feather lying next to the bodies. And, you claimed, you have a pair of wings that I am guessing are made of feathers.”

When he looks up at her again, his eyes are less confident. “So you believe me, then? That I have wings?”

“No.” The word is flat. “But I do believe you might have found some speciality store that sold them to you. And then you wore them when you killed these men.”

She’s not expecting a laugh, but that’s what Lucifer responds with. It’s borderline manic, but a laugh all the same. “As if someone could buy anything _close_ to a pair that resembles my wings.”

Chloe waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. So she continues. “Look, if you did this, you can tell me. You’ll get some leniency from the fact that they were all criminals. And I’ll tell the D.A that you cooperated—”

“I did not _kill_ those men, Detective!”

He speaks with a conviction that leaves Chloe a little breathless. She’s heard her fair share of lies from men facing jail time and this doesn’t sound like one. Still, nothing is adding up, and she needs more than his word to convince her. Her voice is still a little wary as she asks, “And why should I believe you?”

Lucifer looks at her and Chloe feels, inexplicably, like he’s really _seeing_ her. Again, she feels her skin crawl under the weight of his stare. “Because I never kill and I never lie. Torture, maybe. Leave out omissions, possibly. But I am a man of my word, and all I want to do is help.”

As she stares back at him, mustering up a kind of courage that lives far beneath the surface, Chloe considers. She doesn’t trust him, not by a longshot. She doesn’t know him. He could be the best liar she’s ever been faced with; possibly even a sociopath. He could be responsible for the death of five men and the almost-hanging of another. But she has nothing to go on other than her gut and a few pieces of circumstantial evidence. She’s got no more than a few dots on a canvas, unable to connect them and paint a picture. And more importantly, she’s got a man sitting in front of her who, at the very least, may have some of the answers she’s looking for. Countless cases have led her to a point where she can swallow her pride and exhibit patience in search of the truth.

“Alright,” she concedes. “Tell me what you know about Lightbringer.”

Lucifer beams and uncrosses his leg.

* * *

Two hours later, when she’s got more notes from Lucifer and things to untangle than she knows what to do with, Chloe tells her team about her new plan.

Dan tells her she’s crazy. Her captain tells her to stop wasting her time. Even Ella, sweet, non-judgemental Ella, looks conflicted. None of them think teaming up with Lucifer Morningstar, self-proclaimed superhero, is a good idea. Chloe can’t blame them; it’s a fucking _crazy_ idea. Allowing some strange nightclub owner with possible (probable) mental issues catch a killer seeking a perverted sense of justice? She’d doubt her, too. But she stands in her decision and tells them all that she can handle it. And after another thirty minutes of failed attempts, they leave her alone to work.

Because the thing is, Chloe _knows_ Lucifer is Lightbringer. Knows it like she knows Trix’s birthday and Dan’s phone number and the color of grass. Knows he isn’t a superhero, like he claims, but rather a man with a grudge and the money to do something about it. All she has to do is keep him close until she can prove it.


End file.
